The Fuck-Up

EIGHTEEN

“What the fuck are you mumbling?” A set of clothed knees were in front of me, glaring at me.

“Just a year,” I replied and looked up meekly, and I recognized the face. “Your name is Bonnie, isn’t it?”

“No, asshole; Angela, remember? What the fuck happened to you?”

“I got sick and…” I clucked my tongue and raised my eyebrows and asked for some money.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

Then I started crying because someone was actually asking me that, and I started begging her for some food or anything and said that I was in deep shit in a really bad way and needed help, and I knew that she didn’t like me and could laugh at me and walk away, but please don’t just leave me! I cried till I was exhausted. She just stood above me and looked down; her expression didn’t change.

“You’re right,” she finally spoke. “I don’t fucking like you at all. You’re scum.” And I thought she was going to spit at me, and she turned to go, and I swear I don’t understand it, but she turned to me and said, “Follow a half a block behind me, you capisce?” I nodded. “I don’t want anyone knowing you’re with me, capisce?” I nodded.

She started walking down the street slowly, passing the OTB and saying hi to a couple of old guys. I followed slowly behind. I wasn’t sure what the fuck it was going to lead to, but figured even if she was going to lock me in some room and beat the shit out of me, there was still some hope that maybe I could convince her to feed me, so I could feel the pain more acutely. There wasn’t any more hope in that doorway.

I followed at a good distance. In case anyone was watching from a parallax angle, I deliberately walked this way and that—no one could have second-guessed my destination. I kept a tight line of sight on her. She was the only fish on my only hook, and I couldn’t reel myself in until she was inside. Her door slammed shut halfway up the street, and I kept straggling this way and that, looking in garbages, keeping in character. Boy, was I hungry. In a moment I was in front of her house. I saw that the door was slightly ajar and I dashed in.

“Did you run right here?” she asked sharply as soon as I slammed the door behind me.

“I swear I didn’t. I was real careful, I swear it.”

“All right, come on then.” She led me into the bathroom, put some clothes on a hook, and put a black garbage bag on the cover of the toilet. Before she left, she pulled the shower curtain aside and gave me some calamine lotion for the scabs and cuts.

“That goes,” she said, pointing to my beard and handing me a razor. “Put your old clothes in the bag and seal it.”

I towelled off, sheared the beard with scissors I got from the medicine cabinet, and shaved. I eagerly put the clothes on. Although they were not new and hung loosely from me, they were soft, well ironed, and smelled delicious: they seemed edible. When I looked in a full length mirror, I had this strange recognition and inspected the clothing carefully until I realized that I was wearing Helmsley’s garments. I still had only my old shoes, and although I had these new clothes, I had no intention of throwing out my old clothes. There were still cold days ahead. At best this might be a comfort station, where I could get a meal, a shower, and a change of clothes. Then, perhaps, I might get some kind of job. At least I could sit in coffee shops without being thrown out immediately. I could shoplift without being an instant suspect.

“Hey, how did you get Helmsley’s clothes?” I asked upon leaving the bathroom.

“He left a bunch here…. You can have them.” She took the garbage bag and was about to take it out the door.

“Hey, I still need that stuff.”

“Not in my house.”

I remained silent as she threw the bag into a trash heap outside. Did she expect me to stay the night? Or perhaps just for dinner? If I asked her what exactly I could anticipate, I might make her nervous and panicky. I was in a very bad way and had little latitude. Like a fine tool or a dumb animal, she could be used and manipulated for one’s benefit—or misused and made into a danger to everyone around her. Helmsley, in all his braininess, couldn’t use this tool properly.

When she returned, she saw me standing in the middle of her living room floor, just standing there thinking.

“Well, sit down or something,” she said as she walked off into another room.I sat up against the wall and thought about how horrible the outside was. To be outside was terrifying to me; the security of being indoors was unbelievable. To have a place to come to of one’s own design seemed unfathomable. An idea occurred to me: if I committed a crime, I’d go to prison. A place is an extension and confirmation of the identity, I thought. If you’re neurotic or afraid or losing control, you might keep the place nunnery neat, with soups alphabetized in the cupboard or pillows on the couch arranged symmetrically. Strangely although I’ve always liked the idea of a clean place, I’ve always been a messy person. A place too clean and orderly makes me feel self-conscious. Angela’s furniture, knickknacks, and such seemed to be watching me. No, more than just watching me, they seemed to demand, by example, a code of behavior. I had to remain within the protocol of the order of the place.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“What did I do?” I asked, rising unsteadily.

“Why are you sitting on the floor?”

“What am I supposed to do, sit on the wall?” She pointed to a chair and started hollering about how it was the latest invention. I don’t know why I didn’t even consider the chair.

“I’ve sat in chairs before, okay?” I yelled back. “I had a good reason for sitting on the floor. Did that ever occur to you?”

“What reason?”

“’Cause I have an edema build-up in my knees, and I was trying to put some pressure on the area.”

“What, you got water on the knee?”

“Yeah,” I replied, rolling up my pants. Fortunately my knees were swollen so she bought it.

“Whatever suits you.” She left the room. I sat in the chair. In a minute she returned, carrying some crumpled sheets.

“Well, what are you doing in a chair now?” she yelled.

“You made me feel uncomfortable sitting on the floor,” I mumbled.

“Sit on the fucking floor if you want,” she barked. And grabbing the back of the wooden chair, she yanked it so that I fell to the ground.

“My knees are fine now.”

“I think you’re a fucking liar about the knees.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“I don’t know;” she replied. I didn’t say anything, and she walked out of the room. What was she doing in the other rooms? I crept to a doorway and peeked. She was making a bed. I moved silently back into the living room, went over to a bookcase, and surveyed its contents. There were a bunch of pastel-tone romances; the John Jakes historic novel series, named after frontier states and illustrated with covered wagons and cleavage; and glitzy soft-porn best-sellers with embossed red lettering. As my eyes travelled along the colorful, gumdrop-colored paperbacks, I suddenly spotted a dusty hardcover on an out-of-reach shelf: H. Lefebre’s biography Diderot. I strained high to pick it off the shelf and, upon opening it, recognized Helmsley’s Ex Libris mark—it was a first American edition printed in the 1930s. I quietly put it back, took my seat on the floor, pulled my knees up, placed my arms on my lap, and let my hands hang between my legs. I wished I thought of sitting on the chair from the start.

“Hey, hey!” I awoke from a deep sleep with her yelling and shaking me.

“Huh?” I jumped up nervously.

“This ain’t a place to sleep, asshole.” It was time to go.

“Okay,” I said nervously and asked if I could use the bathroom.

“I don’t give a shit,” she said. I went to the bathroom and locked the door. I didn’t have to do anything, but I didn’t want to leave until I absolutely had to. I sat on the toilet seat and leaned back on the tank, drifting off.

“What the hell you doing in there?” she screamed while banging on the door.

“Nothing, nothing,” I replied, opening the door.

“I thought you died in the bathtub or something.”

“No, I’m okay,” I replied, but used her idea. “Do you mind if I take a bath?”

“You just took a shower!” she hissed. But then, more gently, “I don’t care, go ahead.” She was about to close the door, but stopped and asked, “What were you doing in here all that time?”

“I guess I drifted off.”

“Well, why don’t you go to sleep?”

“I don’t have anywhere to go,” I confessed.

“Go to bed, asshole, in there.” She led me to a room where she had made the bed earlier. I thanked her, and as soon as she left the room, I tiredly thanked the darkness, which seemed to embody a great presence, God maybe…. Sleep popped me down like a pill, producing a remarkably fulfilling emptiness.

“Are you hungry?” she screamed in at me. I sat up instantly. My mind raced, trying to bridge the gap between deep sleep and what seemed like an interrogation. She repeated, “Are you hungry?”

Instinctively I said no. If I say yes, I thought, she might interpret it as me trying to make her into a maid or expecting a service from her. I was surprised to see morning light streaming in through the windows.

“At least have coffee.”

I got fully dressed, shoes and socks and all, and went into the kitchen, where I sat at a dinette table. She made herself a full breakfast—hash browns, eggs sunny-side up, three strips of perfectly crisp bacon, toast, and coffee. I longed for the smoothness of yolk, for the texture of salty bacon, and lightly done, buttery toasts. She chewed equinely. She might just as well had been chomping on oats and grain. When she had consumed barely a third of the plate, she tossed the meal into the garbage and then walked off into one of those rooms. I raced over to the trash can and scooped out a large splat of solidified egg white. But then I heard her coming and shoved the egg white deep between my sock and ankle, a cache to eat later.

She walked by the room. My God, she was dressing, probably going off to work, and that meant I’d have to leave at any moment. Angela glanced in.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” she asked, noticing my peculiar expression as I felt the egg white slither into my instep.

“Nothing.”

She then marched off, cursing. I shoved a catsup bottle down the front of my pants. I took some bread and shoved it into my shirt. I saw a can of string beans on the shelf and shoved it in my pocket. I took a spatula and before Angela returned I frantically bent it so that it slid along the leg of my pants. Angela returned, fully dressed in street garb.

“Here’s the key to the place. Lock up and turn out the lights if you leave,” she instructed and walked out. Just like that.

When she left, I took the egg white out of my sock and found a cellophane bag. I put it in the bag along with other little bits and pieces of food she had thrown out. I wrapped up the scraps of food, went back into the bedroom I’d spent the night in, and hid them under the mattress. I then looked through her cupboards and inspected her other foods. I poured out a half box of spaghetti, which I’d found can be eaten raw if you chew very little bits. I broke up the spaghetti into four peg-size parts, wrapped a rubberband around them, and put them behind the schlock in the bookcase. She had four cans of Del Monte Creamed Corn, so I took one and hid it in one of her winter boots in the hallway closet. I hid flat things like bologna and Swiss cheese under the living room rug. I took other small items, too, not even knowing what they all were. The biggest dilemma was deciding how much food I could take without its absence being noticed.

Something occurred to me. I collected all the hidden articles of food. I checked the lock on the door and made sure that she hadn’t given me a decoy key—one that would give me confidence but not open the door after it shut. I didn’t want to leave the house, but I had to for my backup plans. So I walked around the neighborhood and soon headed toward Park Slope by walking along President Street. Then I spotted the bushes bordering a little neighborhood park. I dodged into the shrubbery and, digging as furiously as a squirrel with a prized acorn, carefully buried the little packets of food.

I scurried directly back to Angela’s house, this time passing the street Helmsley had lived on. I thought, if she’s back at the house and has changed the lock I won’t be able to get in anyway. I stood outside Helmsley’s old house and looked at his old living room window where new Levolor blinds hung. I entered the building and knocked on his old door. A young guy opened and politely asked, “Can I help you?”

“I was just looking for an old friend.”

“Well, I’m the only resident here.”

“I know,” I said. “My friend died, but he used to live here.”

“Oh, was his name Helmsley?” I nodded.

“I keep getting his junk mail,” the guy continued. “Here,” he said and picked a letter out of a nearby wicker basket. He handed it to me. Its windowed envelope read, “Helmsley Micinski may have already won one million dollars…”

I stared at it a moment and finally said, “He committed suicide, and I’m living with the person that drove him to it.”

“How ’bout that.”

“I just wanted to see what became of his old place, you know, I lived here myself off and on.” The guy didn’t invite me in but he opened his door and let me peek in. It was yupped out—virtually a Conran’s showroom—although the guy seemed nice enough.

“You would’ve liked Helmsley, but he wouldn’t’ve liked you.”

“I’m sorry he died.”

“What I mean is, I’m not sure if he would’ve approved of you. But he always separated issues from individuals. He could disagree with you about something and still like you.”

“Oh?”

“He lived here for years. What do you pay in rent, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“What did Helmsley pay?”

“He paid something like sixty-two-fifty a month or something.”

“Holy shit!” The guy finally woke up. “I pay more than ten times that.”

“You should go to the Rent Stabilization Board. I don’t think they can raise it that much.”

“Thanks, I will,” he said, shutting the door. Fuck him, that fucking yuppie living in Helmsley’s house. I kicked his door with all my might and raced down the stairs and onto the street. I kept running until I reached Angela’s house.

There, I opened the door with relief and disbelief. Clutching the key in my hand, I walked over the threshold, and then I locked the door behind me. Immediately I slipped the key back into my shirt pocket. I was behind a locked door with a key in my pocket. I felt comforted, happy, kingly. Next, I walked very quickly through each of her rooms and made sure the windows were locked and no one else was in the house. And then I returned to the kitchen and inspected the cupboards, making sure that everything was in place so that she wouldn’t suspect I had rifled through them. I spaced cans evenly apart so that telltale gaps weren’t apparent. I even spent some time thinking about topics I could talk about with her to subtly drain away the time. I tried to remember the names of popular television shows, but could only come up with “Starsky & Hutch,” “Macmillan & Wife,” “The Night Stalker,” and other seventies stuff. So I decided that I would talk and try to guide conversation only if she initiated it. And then I sat down and tuned out awhile.